Same with any other kind of glutinous grain, dairy, soy, eggs, many kinds of nuts, some peppers, garlic, green beans, asparagus, pineapple and almost any other thing you can think of that isn't green that might actually make something taste good. Plus, in an act of preteen defiance that's stuck to this day, I stopped eating meat about 15 years ago. And to top it off, I'm finicky with an overactive imagination and am terrified of anything from the sea or ocean and won't touch anything that even remotely reminds me of it.
Basically, I'm a royal pain in the ass of a dinner date.
***
About seven years ago I started getting mysteriously ill; I'd be close to comatose for weeks on end with no idea why. Trips to emergency rooms didn't help, nor did countless trips to the kinds of doctors I could afford without health insurance. Finally I splurged and got some blood tests and found out that my body will attack certain foods like they're invading viruses, which means swollen glands, aching belly, fever, sore throat, hives, itchy ears, digestive issues that would be unladylike to discuss with anyone but a doctor and in the worst case, anaphylactic shock.
Like the close of any long-term relationship, my split with certain foods was painfully drawn-out. I'd obey my restrictions, learning how to make gluten-free pancakes, cheese substitute and hummus and pesto and pasta sauce from scratch. Then I'd slack off and ignore my health, gorging on gouda or for-real lasagna or pad thai with peanuts once in a while because, screw it, I just couldn't help myself. Vacations were the worst—you need money to eat at vegan, gluten-free hippie establishments, money neither I nor my friends ever had. So I'd eat grilled-cheese sandwiches and spend my trips feeling sick to my stomach, or worse, laid out in bed.
Not too long ago a blood test revealed that my allergies had become more acute and that my white blood cell count was so low I was in disease mode. Time to bite the bullet and get serious about my health.
I consulted a nutritionist my doctor recommended, a skinny ostrich woman in pale blue eye shadow up to there and beyond. I was wearing patent-leather red shoes that day and first off she asked me, "Do they tease you and call you Dorothy?" Then she tried telling me that butter isn't dairy and I can eat as much of it as I'd like. Clearly this woman was off her Barcalounger.
She took a look at my latest allergy test. "You think that's bad," she said, reaching into a cavernous tote. "I have to eat this!" She pulled out a Mason jar full of sloshy brown sludge with fist-size globs of what looked like human tissue.
She told me I'd have to start eating at home before I go out—a practice almost all allergy self-help groups and websites advocate—or else bring little containers of my own special foods to restaurants. Then and there I decided I will not be a victim. I will not be a martyr. I will go out in public and I will eat, dammit.
I had to get creative.
I started going out to breakfast and ordering whatever vegetables they have available in an omelet, hold the eggs, while all around someone's eating something like lemon blueberry buttermilk hotcakes with brown sugar gingersnap cookie butter. Going to steak houses and ordering a plain baked potato with a side of olive oil and an iceberg wedge minus any dressing. I don't want to ruin anyone's meal but at the same time I'd be on the verge of tears: It's not fair.
But I have found a few fantastic, allergen-free dishes in town, plus two restaurants that'll actually, sincerely heed warnings with nary a grumble.
Rosemary's tops tons of lists for many reasons; it tops mine because it's the only restaurant in town that's been thoughtful, accepting the restrictions as a challenge instead of a chance to punish me with blandness for being so picky. My main course was a trio of salads, some warm, one with spicy praline walnuts and Riesling-poached pear slivers that instantly dissolved in my mouth. Plus they whipped up special vinaigrettes and served a side of French lentils, all with a smile.
Eternal gratitude also goes out to Go Raw, where the chef poked her head out numerous times to make sure I wasn't allergic to sunflower seeds (no) or almonds (yes). Out came a makeshift pizza—oh, how I miss pizza! I even lust after those simultaneously sweaty and bone-dry slices incubating in janky convection ovens that normal people won't touch. A sprouted not-too crumbly crust (as is the case with most bready things made without wheat) and bright tomato sauce covered in veggies chopped up all teensy was truly electrifying.
The name of the place is a total bummer and sometimes the clientele can be even worse, but Pink Taco has a light, crispy, tangy vegetable tostada salad (hold all the dairy) that serves as a whole meal; even better is its simple house salad, with toasted pumpkin seeds and jicama spears, and I ask for it with the almost effervescent pickled pink onions. The hefty sweet corn tamales aren't so bad either if you're looking to fill a real empty belly.
Lately I kind of live for Firefly's simultaneously delicate and hearty warm spinach salad with pine nuts and just-short-of-slimy roasted red peppers, minus the fluffy feta, and their most perfect skinny fries: mushy inside, crispy outside, totally delicious without anything else. When the family's in town, we hit the Wynn for brunch simply because they have the most vegetables, though they're missing basic vegan protein items (a beans-and-rice combo would do nicely, even if it doesn't fit with their vaguely Asian theme). My favorite scrumptious dessert and cocktail combo can be found at Wolfgang Puck at MGM: three tiny scoops of lemon sorbet served right as it's about to turn syrupy, plus a flute of champagne with a splash of Chambord.
***
Imagine being surrounded by world-renowned chefs and restaurants and feeling like there's nothing to eat. Imagine you live in one of the flashiest cities in the world, where you can have anything at your fingertips. Except food.
Since surrendering to my needs and not my wants, I've found guilty sensual pleasure in reading menus and getting all hot over cookbooks. Recipes have become my porn. We lust for the forbidden, knowing full well indulgence will lead to ruin. And the tension is delicious.